Lost Conversations
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: The Lions of Al-Rassan. Lost conversations, missing scenes, and might have beens. New: A Moment Only. For a moment, Rodrigo is tempted.
1. Silvenes

A/N – I first read "The Lions of Al-Rassan" some eight years ago. I'm still hopelessly in love. This is going to be a place for all my "Lions" stuff, because I know I'm not going to be able to stop at one.

Disclaimer – "Lions" is the property of Guy Gavriel Kay and his publishers, agents etc. I'm just playing.

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**Lost Conversations**

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**Silvenes**

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Rodrigo Belmonte had been ridiculously young, all of eighteen, nineteen, in the last, golden years of the Khalifate, when Raimundo had fallen afoul of his father and been exiled to Al-Rassan. Drawn by the promise of travel and adventure, captivated, as always, by Raimundo's mad, hotheaded, often selfish charm, he'd accompanied the prince on his journey south. Together, they'd been awed by the great size and diversity of even the least of the Asharite cities; Fezana had intimidated, Lonza had enchanted, and Cartada had overwhelmed them.

But Silvenes…

Silvenes, the greatest city of the peninsula, in the shadow of the heartbreaking beauty of the Al-Fontina, had captivated them with its glorious history, its brilliant culture, and its rich humanity. There they stayed, Raimundo, Rodrigo and the others who had followed them into exile amongst the infidel, in a rich house with a slow-trickling fountain in the courtyard, and an orange tree that bloomed with sweet-smelling flowers. In the market near their lodgings, star-born Asharites, wandering Kindath and Jaddites alike mingled with relative freedom, creating, in their interactions, something extraordinary; it was a world apart from the steel and mud and blood of life in Esperana, where he'd ridden to war at twelve years old, and had been a hardened killer at fourteen.

It was here, in this great, beautiful, diverse city, where the streets, taverns and palaces were filled with music and debate and laughter, that Rodrigo had developed his liking for poetry. It had begun with an infatuation with a courtesan's glorious kohl-lined eyes, and a desperate, fumbling search for something that would impress her. Raimundo, laughing, had directed him to a scribbling hack, who had charged him an exorbitant sum for six lines of mediocre verse. After that, the dark-eyed lady had introduced him to a place where he could hear true poetry spoken –

There, in that small, poorly lit common room, he'd first heard the verses of the young poet-lord of Aljais. The experts had praised them, and Rodrigo, who was no expert, had thought them pleasing – it had been very early, then, in ibn Khairan's career, before he became notorious for something far removed from his poetry.

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Strange, now, to think of how close they had come to meeting then, all those years ago.

Nearly twenty years later the Khalifate was gone, Silvenes and the Al-Fontina had fallen, and Raimundo was dead. Rodrigo, exiled once more, stood in the palace of the king of Ragosa and stared at a man he had never before seen, but who he knew immediately –

Rodrigo wondered what he had been like, that young, bright poet, before the one, irrevocable act that had defined his life forever. He wondered what they might have shared, in that brilliant city, before the last fall of the Khalifate had destroyed something extraordinary in this harsh, cruel world.

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	2. The Last Conversation

A/N – Ammar and Rodrigo speak one last time, before the end.

Disclaimer – I do not claim to own these characters. I'm merely borrowing them, trying to fill in the gaps.

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**II – The Last Conversation**

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"So," Rodrigo said quietly, "it has finally come to this."

"Yes." Ammar nodded. "We always knew it would."

They stood together under the slowly darkening sky, each knowing that this would be the last time, the last chance –

"Ammar…" Rodrigo half-lifted his hand, reaching out. Once, Ammar would have laughed, and gripped it, but the weight of politics, history and religion had proved impossible to resist. Their summer interlude in Ragosa had been a fragile, glorious anomaly. It should never have been, really, in this dying world.

"Do you remember the first night, when we shared a wineskin after the fight?" he asked abruptly.

"Jad, yes," Rodrigo laughed. "You started declaiming poetry at the stars. An angry citizen with no appreciation for fine verse threw their chamber pot out the window at you…"

"It was a good night." A good memory.

"Yes." Ammar could see Rodrigo's throat work as he swallowed, as he tipped his head back slightly to appear unconcerned. He knew that Rodrigo was remembering that night, and other nights like it. "Yes, it was good."

But now it was over. Here, on a level plain near Silvenes, in the twilight that was of neither Ashar nor Jad, they would see the end of something extraordinary –

"Shall we begin?"

There was nothing more to be said, not anymore. They had spoken all the futile words long ago, in the darkness at Orvilla, when Ammar had chosen Al-Rassan and Rodrigo had chosen Esperana, and they had both known that the choices were irrevocable and absolute.

"Let us end it."

Together, they strapped on their helms, lifted their swords and shields, and prepared to do battle for the glory and favour of their gods.

Whatever they had once shared, it was finished.

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	3. Justification

**A/N – **I've been rereading Lions once again. I wanted to explore the largely overlooked friendship between Ammar and Almalik. I don't know if I've quite grasped it yet, but I might keep trying…

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**Justification**

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"He has not been truly anointed," spoke the young, ambitious governor of Cartada. "All men know this."

Ammar did not reply. Almalik spoke truly, he knew – Mustafar was only the last of four puppet khalifs this year – and yet something deep inside him hesitated. To kill a khalif, even one who had not been truly anointed…

"Silvenes is dying, Ammar. Old, blind Mustafar cannot hold back the fall."

"And you can?"

"If we are rid of these puppet khalifs, yes. There were lions once in Al-Rassan – isn't that what you poets say?"

Ammar looked at his companion, fierce, heavy-set, handsome – charismatic Almalik of Cartada, who had just revealed a great deal about himself with that last comment.

"Come, old friend," Almalik said persuasively, placing a hand on his arm. "Will you do this one thing for me?"

The old man had praised his youthful verses. And yet, for Almalik, beloved friend, trusted companion…

"Yes," he said finally. "For you, 'Malik - and Al-Rassan."

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	4. The Nature of Kings

**A/N** – Because the world needs more Rodrigo-Ammar friendship

**Disclaimer** – I don't own _Lions_. Written entirely for pleasure, and not for profit. Don't sue.

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**The Nature of Kings**

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It was very late. The fire was dying down, and around them the men slept, Lain Nunez and Martin concealed as they stood watch. But Rodrigo and his unlikely companion sat awake, talking desultorily; circling ever closer to the strange affinity they had each discovered in the other.

They spoke of many things, and nothing: Al-Rassan, which Rodrigo had visited as a very young man, and where, strangely enough, he had first heard and admired ibn Khairan's poetry. Esperana, and its divided, ambitious kings and fractious lords. Poetry and strategy and the finer points of horse breeding, idle talk to while away the night, as normal soldiers do on campaign.

Power and command isolate. Rodrigo was used to standing aloof from other men. And yet, since Raimundo's death, no one but Miranda had ever drawn him so strongly.

"What was he like?" he asked, as the talk circled to Cartada and its famed crimson dyes. "Your king."

Ibn Khairan was silent for a long time. They said he had killed the last Khalif at Almalik's direct suggestion. Since then, he had stood at the king's right hand, enjoying the considerable benefits – and the not-inconsiderable risks – that came of royal patronage.

And then Almalik had turned on him, and ibn Khairan had killed him.

"He was my friend, I suppose," Ibn Khairan finally spoke. "Imperious, hot-tempered, charismatic; my companion of twenty long years, as much as one can claim such things of a king. Or at least I thought so."

Rodrigo said nothing. He, too, remembered a hot-tempered, charming, often selfish prince, and a great friendship cut short too early. Would he have killed an old, blind puppet for Raimundo?

And would Raimundo have eventually turned on him?

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	5. Morning Light

**A/N** – Jehane/Ammar, the morning after Ragosa's carnival.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own _Lions, _any of the canon characters, settings or situations.

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**Morning Light**

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Jehane lies beside him in the morning light, her orderly, practical mind a little drunk on his nearness.

It is an intoxicating luxury, the freedom to touch him as she wills; she has heard all the stories, the rumours, the myths: Ammar ibn Khairan, the courtier, the soldier, the poet, jaded and dissolute, pursued and courted by countless men and women. And here he is, all his defences lowered, allowing her free rein: slowly, she draws her hand along his warm skin, feeling the slow beat of his pulse, the living, breathing weight of flesh and blood. He smells of scent, of smoke and blood from the night previous, but underneath is the warm, heady smell that is his and his alone.

He stirs slowly, contentedly, his blue eyes opening to meet hers.

She has read his poetry, she thinks, suddenly bemused. Read, and envied, the lines written for Zabira of the white limbs and alluring dark eyes, who had been a king's concubine, and who had travelled with him through the mountains, under his protection –

And yet last night, he had whispered fractured verses in _her_ ear, his smooth, resonant voice hoarse and strained.

She laughs silently, bends down to press a kiss to his chest. His hands tangle through her hair, tugging her up to face him; his expression is quizzical, but she refuses to answer the unspoken question. It was an unworthy thought, really, of which her parents would disapprove; but then she always had been a sore trial to them.

She buries her face in his chest and smiles.


	6. A Moment Only

**A/N** – More Rodrigo and Ammar. Implications of slash, nothing more.

**Disclaimer** – I don't the characters, settings, or anything to do with Lions. No money was made in the writing of this fic. Don't sue.

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A Moment Only

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"'Malik made me an offer last night," Ibn Khairan says thoughtfully. His voice and manner are mild, ironic, but his eyes are direct and steady. It was those eyes – extravagant, unlikely blue – that saved Rodrigo from dismissing him as a mere courtier at their first meeting.

"You did not accept," Rodrigo guessed. He, of all people, knew just how dangerous it was to be boon companion to a hot-headed, impetuous prince.

Raimundo had played fast and loose with games of power, and more often than not it was Rodrigo who had to save him from his own recklessness. Charismatic, fierce and unpredictable, often unreliable, Raimundo nevertheless brought a texture and richness to his life that he had never before experienced, and never would again – when he slung his arm over Rodrigo's shoulder and called him _brother_, Rodrigo knew that he would never wish to serve another man.

But ambitious princes die, and so do dreams of youth and innocence.

_Almalik urged me to kill the Khalif, _Ibn Khairan had told him once. _Though he thanked me for it, raised me high in his counsel, he never truly forgot what I had done – well, and so he was proved right._

There is something hard and bitter in him when he talks of Almalik, and Rodrigo recognises it as kin to the scar that he carries in Raimundo's name – they had loved their kings, he and Ammar, though in different fashions.

"It is too late for that," Ibn Khairan replies. "I cannot be, for him, what I was to his father."

As always, the Asharite – poet, courtier, diplomat – is a master of subtle, unspoken statement. He is scented and bejewelled, his looks polished, his manner ironic and amused – he had been the King's closest confidante, the impressionable Heir's tutor, and over the years the rumours surrounding him had reached even the Valledan court. Ibn Khairan is a decadent, charismatic hedonist, worldly and ambitious. Rodrigo has spent long enough in Al-Rassan to understand the implication.

Raimundo is more than twenty years dead. Rodrigo is no longer a boy, to be caught up in another's influence, no matter how strong – and yet here he sits, far from home, with the only other man he has ever met who can come close to that glorious spark –

He thinks of Raimundo, whom he once loved. He thinks of Miranda, whom he loves above all things other than honour, and of his two boys, brave and spirited, with their hearts in their eyes. He thinks of Jehane, whom he also loves, and who has just discovered her love for Ammar.

He thinks of Valledo, and of Al-Rassan, and of the holy war that would come no matter what their actions in these last days of innocence.

And so he holds back, and the moment passes.


End file.
